Snowballs and Soldiers
by ILuvBoysInDresses
Summary: A little tale of my take on the snowball effect. USUK Christmas one shot with a small side helping of Franada


**A/N: Important information at the bottom for those who follow my other stories.**

**Now, please enjoy...**

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><p>"So much snow!" America screamed as he charged out of the conference hall.<p>

"Yeah, there is, isn't there, eh?" Canada giggled following slowly after his brother. "Though, I'm still wondering why we had to have a meeting today. I mean, it's Christmas."

"It was so you all could be graced by my wonderful holiday attire," France purred, throwing open the double doors and standing with his arms outstretched in a showy manner to display his mistletoe-strewn pant suit.

England was the next to step out, shoving rudely at France with one arm while the other hid slightly behind his back as he growled, "Oh, you bastard, your attire would have been nude if it weren't cold outsi-."

He probably would have finished that statement with a couple more profanities and quips at the French, were it not for the snowball that pelted him in the face and knocked him back through the open doors.

"So much snow!" America repeated, laughing loudly at his perfect aim.

"Ooh la la, I can hear his eyebrows preparing to explode," France trilled with a wink in Canada's direction before he sashayed down the snowy stairs. He grabbed the younger man's wrist gently, kissing the back of his hand. Head still down, France looked up through his golden lashes. "But never fear, mon cher, I shall save you."

Canada shrieked as the grip on his wrist tightened and France ran off with him.

However, it seemed that France hadn't been entirely wrong. The doors were nearly torn from their hinges as a red-faced English gentleman kicked them open. It was then that America's laughter died in his throat. Despite the fact that the snowball had left a white beard on England's face, America could only stare at England's hand. He was holding a small box wrapped in red paper and tied with a silver ribbon. When America mustered up the strength to tear his eyes away from the gift, he looked pleadingly to England's face and notice that England's thick eyebrows – one of the traits America had always loved most about him – were drawn together not only in sadness but also in undeniable hurt.

The older man looked down the steps and roughly drug his sleeve across the remaining slush around his mouth. "You ungrateful piss," he seethed, "happy fucking Christmas!" England chucked the box right at America's head.

"England?" America's hands flung up and caught the projectile as England raced off, but America saw the tears welling up in those green eyes. "England!" he called after the retreating figure, but it was to no avail.

Beaten, America dropped his gaze down to gift that rested in the palm of his hand. He tugged at the ribbon and opened the wrapping more carefully than he could ever remember himself doing. He fell breathless. There, in his slowly numbing hands, a delicately carved wooden soldier stood at attention.

His feet were moving before he could think. Thoughts swirled through his head like the crystalized puffs of air that spilled from his lips. He reeled through snippets of information: how to form an apology, how to say thank you, and the fact that England even remembered him mentioning that he had started collecting special toy soldiers. America owed England big next Christmas.

He followed the fast footsteps unwaveringly, the soldier cradled deftly in his right hand, until he rounded a street corner and screeched to an audible stop in a slim alleyway. England sat about three feet away, tears staining his still-red cheeks. His eyes drifted morosely upward. Then he realised who had invaded his solitude and shot straight up, grabbing a handful of snow on the way. "The hell do you want?" His fingers clenched tightly around the snow that he held, compacting it into a situationally perfect weapon.

"I love it. Thank you." It was less thoughtful than America had hoped, but it at least got the job done.

"Oh, save your breath," England hissed coldly, "you'll need it for laughing."

America chuckled. That was it; that was his much needed inspiration. "You're kinda right. I can cut that down by two words, can't I?" He took a deep breath and prayed this would work. "I love you."

England stiffened, and America could have sworn he saw the beginnings of a smile. Then England bolted. That was definitely not America's definition of 'working', but he wasn't going to have this all happen over again. He was able to grab only a small corner of England's sleeve, but it was enough. England's speed pulled him along for a moment, until England, noticing the attachment, allowed America to sling himself forward so that he lost his grip and was left standing quite a good distance from England in the snow-covered street.

America had almost lost faith in the success of his love confession when England's eyes widened and his arm reached out, catching America by the waistband of his jeans and tugging him back into the alley, out of the path of the passing semi.

"You stupid child," England panted harshly, "didn't I teach you not to stand in the road? Are you alright?"

"No, I don't think I am," America answered, then cracked a smile at England's sudden panic as he finished, "'cause I'm in love with you."

England finally just couldn't hold back his smile. His head dropped with barely stifled laughter.

Yet that sound, that America loved so deeply, stopped as England let out a slight gasp. "Your pants…"

"What?" America followed England's gaze, and, indeed, his pants…

When England had wrenched on America's jeans, he had done so so quickly that they were now undone, revealing the upper half of his boxer-briefs.

"Wait, are those red?" England snipped offhandedly.

"Yeah, Italy gave them to me for good luck," America replied.

He was answered by a fond sigh. "You're supposed to wear them on the last day of the year."

"Really?" America asked. "Then maybe you should help me out of them."

The snowball that had taken previous residence in England's palm made itself at home all over America's face.

England let out a hearty laugh and then wiped the ice off America's glasses.

"Merry Christmas, England." America murmured, his blue eyes locking with England's green.

A sly smile slid onto England's lips, and his hands crept down to the exposed area of America's underpants. America's breath quickened nervously. Then England did up the fly on America's jeans and, with a light pat, was done.

"Happy Christmas," England smiled smugly. "Now, let's go get something to eat," he commanded, leading America to a quaint diner down at the end of the street.

America beamed as he fell in step behind England. He couldn't have asked for anything better.

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><p><strong>AN: So that's your Christmas gift, I guess? I threw it together in 10 hours, and I'm sorry it's not better. But if you liked it, then ,yay, I don't fail at short stories. Oh and it's a little late, I have an excuse but I don't want to bug you guys.**

**So here's the important info for those who keep up with what little work I do because they see something in me: I haven't been updating, I realise that, but if you check my page you'll see why. All the stories written up there are currently being typed up. I've spread myself thin, but I promise that I'm working on it. I no longer have classes on Friday, so there's an extra day devoted to writing for you. What I think might happen is that you'll get a lot of updates of a lot of different stories in a close time frame. That could proove good or bad, but I am truly trying and I thank you for your understanding and support.**

**Happy Christmas!**


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